


Too Late

by TheDarkChocolateLord



Series: Lumenaria [2]
Category: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger
Genre: Angst, Blood, Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Oralie and Bronte are best friends and you can't change my mind, Violence (slightly more than canon levels), before you yell at me for how angsty this is I'm just extrapolating off of canon, it (sort of ) ends happily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27919843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkChocolateLord/pseuds/TheDarkChocolateLord
Summary: What happened to Oralie when Lumenaria fell?
Relationships: Councillor Bronte & Councillor Oralie (Keeper of the Lost Cities), Councillor Oralie & Mr. Forkle
Series: Lumenaria [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199858
Comments: 12
Kudos: 11





	Too Late

"We have word that a prison break is about to begin!" Oralie shouted, her voice echoing off of the lumenite walls.

Every eye on the room locked on her, from Mr. Forkle, who looked as if he'd just been hit with a flash of realization, to Empress Pernille, frozen in place with a goblet in hand, to Queen Hylda, whose hand immediately went for where the hilt of her sword would have been. 

King Dimitar was the first to speak. "You expect us to  _ believe  _ you?"

"The Neverseen wouldn't have handed themselves over so easily if they didn't have a greater plan," Edaline argued. "Especially Fintan—he wouldn't have given himself up for nothing."

"If we could please get all available goblins to the dungeons—" Oralie glanced at Queen Hylda, who gave her a nod; a dozen burly gray figures raced for the stairs. 

"Should we evacuate?" Empress Pernille wondered. 

The chandelier above swayed, crystals clashing with what was probably more force than normal.

"We'll have protection from the prison break in here—"

"We could end up trapped, maybe we should evacuate—"

"We could light leap away, Councillor Bronte has an emergency crystal, but they won't work unless we have natural light—"

"Look out!" Edaline shouted, gesturing at the ceiling. 

The chandelier jolted from left to right to left again; one of the chains anchoring it to the ceiling snapped, then another. With a crash, the strands of crystal dipped and shook and spun, swinging wildly across the room.

Oralie dove to her left, ducking as the chandelier hit the floor and crystal shrapnel sprayed the room. As the chandelier slid to a stop, the ground trembled, causing various tables to shudder on the slick lumenite floor.

"Earthquake?"

"Structural instability?"

"Outward channelling," Mr. Forkle gasped, staring at the cracked ceiling. "Gethen."

_ Oh, no. _

Gethen had been sitting in that cell for weeks, he'd talked about building his mental reserves, he had enough mental energy to break all four Neverseen members out of prison—probably enough to collapse the entire castle. If she had realized it sooner…

The goblins. 

They were trapped in the dungeons with the Neverseen members, all of whom had the strength to explode stone with their minds. 

She wanted to scream, to tell them to turn back, but she knew that they were too fast and she was too quiet and they wouldn't be able to hear her before it was too late.

"We need to get out!" a voice across the room shouted, and there was a surge for the twin staircases on either side of the room. 

The staircase spiraled down and down and down, and Oralie's heels definitely didn't help with the descent, or how the staircase was trembling under her feet. Two steps from the landing, the entire staircase jolted; she jumped the last few steps and raced for one of the available passageways.

The route she took seemed more stable than the last, but it was littered with crumbles of lumenite and other debris. Just as she neared a corner—she recognized this place, she  _ had  _ to be getting closer to the exit—her shoe caught on a fallen rock and she crashed to the ground, gasping for breath as she turned around and yanked off the stupid heels. 

That was when she saw the cloaked figures, a few dozen yards behind her—one that had to be Brant, with a scarred face that even his heavy hood couldn't disguise, the other with— _ no. _

"Give up now and we'll make it quick," Gethen yelled, brandishing the sword from the stone. He must have freed it with his outward channelling.

_ Channelling. _

"Thanks for the offer, but no," Oralie called as she stood up, gathering as much core energy as she could. She sent it racing down her left arm, where it sank through her shoulder and down her wrist, leaving a tingling sensation in her fingers.

She flung her heels at Gethen and Brant.

Brant was able to dodge, but the second shoe hit Gethen right in the eye, causing him to stumble back and cry out in pain. Oralie spun around and raced down the corridor; that wouldn't buy her much time.

She channelled all energy to her legs as she dashed through the glowing passageway, down a set of stairs, across a wide room where the floor shook with every step.  _ The next door will be the exit. The next door will be the exit.  _ But each doorway only led to another room, and the footsteps behind her were growing louder and closer by the second, gaining more and more energy, like the patch of quicksand that formed the Gateway to Exile right before it sucked someone down. Lumenite swirled through the air, skimming her face and arms as she ran, scraping her lungs when she dared to breathe.

Oralie dodged a cluster of flying ceiling and raced through a doorway. The place was a disaster zone, an obstacle course of toppled furniture and rubble and twisted crystal that scraped her bare feet when she misstepped. She had to be on the second floor by now; if she could just get through that archway, there was a staircase leading down—

The archway ahead of her crashed into pieces; she spun around, looking for an exit, but Gethen and Brant were feet from her, Gethen's hand outstretched—he must have collapsed that archway on purpose. Two strides by Gethen and he was directly in front of her, his sword inches from her throat. 

Oralie screamed. 

" _ 'That sword isn't going anywhere, _ '" Gethen mocked in a high-pitched voice, bringing the blade closer to her neck and forcing her to take a step back. "Any last words?"

There was no way out; he had backed her into a wall. "Not really, it's more like advice." If she could just keep him talking, maybe someone would hear her….or at least it would prolong her death for another few minutes. Things couldn't get any worse from here, could they?

" _ What? _ You think you can advise me, the leader of the Neverseen, who just pulled off a plot that you foolish Councillors would never have expected–" Gethen's tone was skeptical, yet the desperation wafting off of his skin was stronger than either his terror or even exhilaration.

There was a rumbling sound from a half-collapsed golden doorway.

"What  _ is  _ it?" Gethen demanded. 

"First of all, next time you try to murder me, give me some advance warning so I can make sure I've got decent shoes on. Do you know how hard it is to run in heels?"

"Oh, there won't be a next time," Gethen leered. 

"For a very different reason then you're thinking." 

From a half-collapsed golden doorway across the room, Mr. Forkle burst through the rubble, hand stretched out towards Gethen. As he dashed forward, his eyes narrowed; the blond telepath was flung backwards and into the floor. 

Brant rushed ahead, ball of fire in hand; Mr. Forkle shoved him into the path of falling rubble and….

She didn't even what to think about what that gray gunk leaking from his skull had to be. 

"You'll pay for this!" Gethen yelled, sword in hand as he got to his feet and raced for Mr. Forkle.

Gethen lunged forward—Mr. Forkle cried out in pain—his body collapsed to the ground, his tunic bright red from the stab wound in his gut.

_ No. _

_ Mr. Forkle—he couldn't have— _

_ NO! _

Terror raced through Oralie's body, like the tingling in her cells before a light leap times a thousand; she didn't have time to think as she ducked behind a fallen piece of the balcony, forcing Gethen to change direction and—

A gust of wind blasted through a mostly demolished wall; the ground shook again as the unstable lumenite floor cracked from the wind and the gauge split the crumbling room in half. When the room steadied, the two of them were on opposite sides of the chasm. 

From across the divide, Gethen gazed at Brant's mutilated body, his sorrow so strong Oralie could feel it from across the room. 

She didn't want to be feeling his sorrow. Didn't want to reconcile the murderer who tortured Sophie and stabbed Mr. Forkle with someone who was clearly grieving for his friend as much as she had grieved for Kenric. Didn't want to even  _ think  _ about this when Mr. Forkle was dying. But it was real. It was there.

The castle trembled again, sending chunks of floor tumbling into the abyss, yet Gethen remained in place, using telekinesis to wrap Brant's body in a tablecloth. Another jolt and he was levitating through a newly created gap in the floor on the far side of the room.

"See you next time," Gethen yelled as he was swallowed by the darkness. 

Oralie rushed to Mr. Forkle's side.

The stab wound….well, it was a stab wound. And it looked awful. That was about as far as her medical expertise went. That and the fact that she needed to keep pressure on it, so she grabbed a tablecloth and pressed it over the source of the bleeding.

"You have to go," Mr. Forkle rasped. 

"No. I'm staying."

"The castle's collapsing, the ceiling is falling in here, and if the damage gets any worse—"

"I'm not letting someone die because of me again!" Even as the words left of her mouth, the blood began to swiftly soak the white fabric. 

"Gethen left because it was getting too unstable—after making all those threats about killing you. He wouldn't have given up if he didn't think he was going to die if he stayed. Please. Leave before the castle collapses even more."

"We can fix this," Oralie tried, not sure she believed her own words. "I could go find a medic—"

"No. By the time you do, it'll be too late."

Tears streaked down Oralie's face, stinging a scrape across her cheek. "There has to be  _ something  _ I can—"

"There is. Don't let anyone outside of the Black Swan's Collective know of my death." He snapped his fingers, causing an Imparter to appear in his hand. "Contact Tiergan. He'll know how to get my body out of here undetected. The Collective will tell you about their contingency plan when the time is right. Don't let this break you. Promise me."

"I promise."

"After this, Sophie's going to need an ally on the Council now more than ever. If she doesn't find me in time….tell her that I'm proud of her. That she's got so much of her life ahead of her and I want her to be happy."

"I'll tell her," Oralie whispered, staring at the crumbling floor. It was strange that Gethen hadn't just levitated across, after making all of those threats…."Oh  _ no _ ." 

"What?"

"Gethen could have levitated over that gap with ease, and he would have done so if he was making good on his threat to kill me. The only reason….the only reason he would have left is to go after someone else. Like Sophie." 

A new wave of fear overcame Mr. Forkle's worry. "Not to mention that they could have split up on purpose—Ruy and Fintan are still out there, and I don't know if breaking the mysterious prisoner out of their cell was part of their plan or not."

"And even if they aren't going after Sophie, they could be going after anyone—the castle was full of world leaders. Killing any one of them would be a serious blow."

Was Bronte safe? Was Sophie? Was  _ anyone _ ?

"Still, they were chasing you for a while." A tiny bit of relief seeped in with Mr. Forkle's fear. "I was almost out of the castle when I found you. Everyone else should have had enough time to escape. And Gethen's almost certainly gone by now; we're only on the second floor. If you go now—"

"I'm not leaving. Even if I can't save you. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. This wasn't your fault. There are so many things that led to this disaster, and the only person responsible for my death is the one who wielded that sword."

Sincerity and trust were rising from him in careful, spiraled loops, so clear she barely had to try to translate his emotions—and when she pushed further, understanding and even hope were twisted in with his sorrow. 

_ It wasn't your fault,  _ Oralie repeated to herself, trying to believe the words.

".... an even clearer reading of your emotions?" a familiar voice asked.

"Probably. Why?" That had to be Sophie.

"No reason," the second voice said again.

"Is someone there?" Oralie called.

"Oralie!" Sophie yelled, and the footsteps in the distance grew louder. A moment later, Sophie and Keefe (somehow, Keefe being there was the  _ least  _ surprising thing that had happened in the past two days) raced through the doorway and into the room.

She wanted to say everything from  _ thank goodness you're alive  _ to  _ I'm sorry  _ to  _ is everyone else okay? _ , but she stuck to "Over here."

The two of them came closer, skirting chunks of fallen ceiling and destroyed furniture as they made their way across the room. Both Sophie and Keefe seemed mostly unharmed, aside from minor cuts and scrapes, and she was grateful for that—she  _ couldn't  _ lose anyone else today.

The rest of the scene was a blur.

She remembered Sophie's scream when she saw Mr. Forkle, Sophie trying everything she could to save her dying mentor. She remembered watching Mr. Forkle's chest fall, the grief from Sophie and Keefe and herself drowning her in massive waves. She remembered her hands shaking as she hailed Tiergan, blood smearing the edges of the sleek silver gadget. She remembered leaving the castle with Sophie and Keefe, Sophie's photographic memory tracing out a path for them as they left the ruins behind. 

Sophie took the lead as they made their way onto the beach, skirting pieces of far-flung lumenite debris. They had just passed a collapsed piece of the outer walls when a voice called, "Sophie?"

"Mom!" Sophie yelled, running towards Edaline full tilt, and a moment later they were wrapped in each other's arms. That's when Oralie saw the figure beside Edaline—just under five feet tall, his perpetually grumpy expression replaced by worry and...concern? 

"Thank goodness you're alive," Bronte rambled as he buried her in a hug—a shock at first, as he wasn't one to initiate physical contact, but she quickly returned it. "I couldn't find you, and then I met Edaline and she told me about Sophie leaving and that you were probably still inside—what happened?"

"You first," Oralie told him, her mind working furiously to come up with a believable lie. "Is everyone else okay?" She let her concern overtake her guilt and fear, and Bronte didn't push for details.

"Only five of the goblins made it out, and Terik's going to lose part of his leg. Everyone else is going to be fine—there are broken bones and small injuries, but nothing major."

That….wasn't good, but wasn't as terrible as she'd feared, either. "I'm just glad that you're safe."

"Me, too. What  _ happened  _ to you, though?" Bronte eased out of the hug and took a closer look at her. "You look like you've been crying."

Oralie made a mental note to wipe off the rest of her dripping makeup before she met up with the rest of the Council. "Gethen and Brant cornered me and they were about to kill me. Mr. Forkle barely got there in time. He's with the Black Swan now. Brant died in the fight—his skull got crushed by falling rubble." Like any good liar, she knew that she had to stick as close to the truth as possible; it was easier to come up with details when her explanations were put to the test.

Bronte muttered a cuss word under his breath. "I could have lost you, it was that close, I could have—" His voice broke and he hugged her even more tightly. 

A sob slipped loose from the gut-wrenching knot of emotions in Oralie's chest.

"It's okay to cry," Bronte whispered. "I'm here."

Oralie let herself go. Let herself unleash the flood of tears she'd been holding back throughout the tidal wave of action and guilt and grief. Bronte didn't object as she leaned on him, just hugged her more tightly as she released her storm of emotions into the clear blue sky.

The last sobs faded into hiccups as she took a deep breath and asked, "Did you get out okay? Are you hurt?"

"I made it out unscathed, aside from a few scrapes—I was one of the first out and didn't run into any trouble."

"That's great," Oralie breathed.

"My size worked to my advantage."

"Your lack of size, technically."

"If I wasn't so relieved that you were okay I'd have some snarky comeback to that." Bronte's eyes flickered to her feet. "What happened to your shoes?"

"I threw them at Gethen and Brant."

"Ah, yes, heeled shoes, otherwise known as a mild torture device and a projectile weapon."

"Don't you  _ also  _ wear heels?"

"I'm vertically challenged; I have a reason to."

Beside them, Sophie laughed, taking a step closer. "Um, I don't want to intrude, but Keefe, Edaline, and I are heading home—could you tell everyone else?"

Bronte nodded. "How are you getting back?"

"Teleporting." Sophie's voice softened. "I'm glad that you guys are okay."

"I'm glad that you're safe," Oralie told Sophie, and Bronte echoed her sentiment.

Sophie smiled. "Goodbye. I'll see you next Tribunal."

"Miss Foster, I was hoping that you wouldn't be  _ having  _ any more Tribunals," Bronte grumbled.

"Me too, but who knows what'll happen next?" She waved and headed off to where Keefe and Edaline were waiting. 

"I suppose we should be getting back," Bronte said, watching as the trio levitated higher and higher. "Everyone else is about a third of the way around the island."

"I'm ready," Oralie told him, and the statement wasn't a lie. She wiped off the last of her smudged makeup. "Let's go."

  
  



End file.
